The Darker Side of Solace
by AislingK
Summary: Tim deals with the psychological aftermath of having killed someone. Tag to S3 episode Probie. Warning: Contains the spanking of adults.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Darker Side of Solace

**Disclaimer**: These characters belong to Donald Bellisario, and I hope he won't mind that I've borrowed them once again.

**Warning**: This story contains the **spanking** of adults. If that's not your thing, it would be best if you didn't read it, or at least that you refrain from telling me about your displeasure.

* * *

_Author's Notes_: This story is a tag to the Season 3 episode "Probie", during which Tim shoots a cop. The cop is killed, though it is never known whether Tim's bullet was the kill shot. The episode ends with Tim still in anguish over the incident. My story is an angsty envisioning of how Tim deals with the pain afterwards.

While this story is not set in an alternate universe, the reader should be willing to take it for granted that Gibbs regularly uses corporal punishment to discipline his agents.

* * *

The woman watched Tim from across the room. Her eyes were kind, and Tim thought that her interest in him seemed genuine. Knowing that made him feel even more self-conscious, and he looked down to escape her expectant gaze. She was clearly waiting for him to initiate the conversation, but he didn't know what to say. Everyone had given him advice this afternoon – Tony, Ziva, even Ducky – but Tim wasn't sure he could do this.

Finally the prolonged silence got to him, and Tim made the first move.

"I'm not sure how this works," he started awkwardly.

The woman smiled at him. "It can work any way you want."

"I guess I just don't know what you want me to talk about."

"I'd like to get to know you, Tim. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?"

"You mean, like, where I grew up and where I went to school?"

"If you like. Or we could start with something more recent. Like what it was like for you coming here today."

Tim shifted in his seat. The leather couch was soft and he felt like he was sinking into it. Ziva had stressed the need to look assertive, but it was hard to project an image of confidence when he felt like he was being swallowed up by a sofa.

"It was OK."

"Did it make you nervous?"

"No." He blurted out without thinking. Before continuing, Tim made a conscious effort to sound calmer. "I mean, maybe a little. But just because I wasn't sure what to expect."

"And how do you feel now that you're here?"

Tim was about to lie, but he could tell that she'd see right through him.

"I guess I'm still kind of nervous."

She nodded at his answer. When she didn't offer any other response, Tim spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said shyly.

"What for?"

"For not being better at this."

"What should you be better at? You just got here."

"I know. You're right. I'm sorry – I shouldn't have apologized. It's just something I do. Well, usually. My boss doesn't like people to apologize. But I'm still sorry."

"Should we talk about that?"

"About what?" Tim asked with confusion.

"About what it's like to feel like you have something to apologize for, and then not to be allowed to express that feeling out loud."

Tim was struck by the perceptiveness of her remark, but at the same time he felt defensive. Gibbs was family, and this woman was in no position to judge him.

"It's not like that."

"Like what?"

"It's not like how you made it sound. Gibbs – he does what's right for the team. It's about being strong and confident and decisive. If you're out in the field there's no time for a bunch of apologies and hand-holding."

"Of course. I'm sorry if it sounded like I was being critical. I guess I was just curious about what it was like for you to be in a situation where you feel like you've made a mistake, and you want to make amends, but there isn't room for that."

Tim felt his chest tighten.

"You can't hesitate in the field. There's no time for second-guessing yourself."

Dr. Avery gazed at him steadily, and Tim knew she could tell that he'd deliberately avoided her question. He thought about everyone's advice before the session. Ziva had told him to reveal nothing, to show no weakness that would give the psychologist a reason to take him off active duty. Tony had encouraged him to be funny and charming, "if he could pull that off, at least for 50 minutes". Only Ducky had encouraged honesty.

"Timothy," Ducky had advised, "the director has approved your return to the field on the condition that you meet with this psychologist. She's not trying to find anything wrong with you, she's just trying to help you be in the best mental shape that you can on the job. Take advantage of this opportunity, my dear boy. Many people would benefit from the counsel of a trained professional, but can't afford it or simply don't know to seek out such help. You've been given a gift, Timothy. Don't squander it. What you went through, thinking that you killed a man, was very traumatic. Give yourself the time and support that you need to heal properly from that experience."

Tim looked at the woman sitting across from him. Part of him trusted her implicitly and desperately wanted to tell her everything – that he couldn't stop reliving the night that he shot John Benedict in the alley. That he knew without a shadow of a doubt that one of his bullets had been the kill shot, and nothing he could do would ever make up for that. Tim wanted to tell her that sometimes when he woke up in the morning he was shaking and bathed in sweat, and that most days after he put his gun in his desk drawer he had to go to the head and vomit before being able to get back to work.

But that was impossible. Tim knew that if Dr. Avery was aware of any of this she'd probably restrict him from field work, and maybe even insist that he take a leave of absence. He'd never recover from the shame of that even if he did get his job back at some point. Letting this woman inside his head just wasn't an option. No one could know how he felt or what he was going through, and if Tim couldn't make the pain go away, then he at least needed to hide it. He was a highly trained agent. Convincing a psychologist and his team members that he was in perfect mental health was hardly a challenge compared to some of the serious undercover work on his resume.

Tim channeled his best impression of Tony and flashed a charming smile at the therapist. "Everyone makes mistakes, Dr. Avery. But you fix it by not making the same mistake twice. It's about learning from your mistakes, not making amends. I'm not saying you shouldn't make amends if you can, but on the job, there just isn't time for that to be a priority. People could die tomorrow if you're not paying attention because you're thinking about making amends for something you did yesterday. That's something we all understand, and it keeps us functioning effectively as a team." Tim barely even recognized his own smooth-talking voice.

Dr. Avery nodded pensively.

"I'd like us to talk more about this, Tim. Are you willing to keep meeting with me so that we can continue the conversation?"

Tim's stomach flipped. "Do I have to?" He cringed at the childish question that popped out of his mouth.

"No, Tim. You don't. Attending further counseling sessions is not a mandatory condition of your return to duty. But I'd like you to consider volunteering for it. I think you might find it beneficial."

Tim stood up. "OK, I'll give it some thought. It was nice meeting you." He shook her hand politely and then quickly exited her office. He knew he wouldn't be coming back.


	2. Chapter 2

After the therapy session Tim had wanted nothing more than to go home and lose himself in the universe of an online game, but instead he was stuck in the back seat of Gibbs's car with Tony beside him. Ziva had called "shotgun", and Tim was unreasonably irritated at her for winning the privilege, even though he'd never have the nerve to call it himself.

Tony reached across the seat and grabbed the top of Tim's head with his open hand, fingers spread wide.

"Tony!" Tim yelled and tried to swat DiNozzo's arm away, but Tony pinned him down and scrunched his fingers back and forth on Tim's scalp.

"It doesn't seem any smaller to me!" Tony then planted one hand flat across Tim's face and the other on the back of his head and squeezed.

"What the hell, Tony!" Tim waved his hands blindly in Tony's direction, trying to push his annoying partner away.

"I was just thinking that after having your head shrunk, maybe your giant noggin would be a little smaller. But I can't tell the difference. I guess you're going to need more intensive work than we all thought, Probie."

Tim finally wrenched himself free from Tony's grasp.

"Bite me, DiNozzo."

"Only if you ask politely!" Tony quipped.

"Do I need to pull over the car?" Gibbs growled from the front seat.

Tim glared at his partner and Tony grinned in return, but they kept their mouths shut. They both had experienced Gibbs "pulling over the car" before, and the only thing worse than the spanking they'd get would be having to face Ziva waiting for them afterwards.

With everyone finally riding in silence, Tim was able to sink back inside himself. His mind went straight to Tony's comment about his head still being the same size. It had just been a joke, but Tim thought that Tony had unknowingly been right. Not because it was scientifically impossible for his head to have gotten smaller, but because Tim hadn't let Dr. Avery do any shrinking on him. He thought it might have been nice to have let her in, just the tiniest little bit. Maybe she'd have been able to fix him, to make him right again. Maybe there'd be some kind of psychological magic she could work and it would be like the night of the shooting had never happened.

Tim shook himself back to reality. He had no right to want Dr. Avery to fix him. John Benedict would never be fixed. He was dead. He'd been a good cop, and now he was dead, and Tim had killed him. The least Tim could do was live with the constant pain of knowing that he was the reason a decorated and honorable policeman was dead. There were a million ways he could have done things differently that night. If he hadn't startled everyone by calling out, maybe the men in the car wouldn't have shot at Benedict, and Tim would never have returned fire. If he'd paid more attention to where the flash had come from, he might have aimed his shots at the car instead of Benedict. If he'd taken just a second to realize that Benedict was raising his hands in surrender, and not to fire his gun, Tim wouldn't have shot at all, and he might have been able to save Benedict from Archer's gunshot.

Tim could pretend all he wanted that the reason he hadn't opened up to the psychologist was that he didn't want to lose his job. But he knew that if it would bring John Benedict back, he'd hand over his badge himself. No, if he was being honest, Tim knew that the reason he didn't confide in Dr. Avery was that he didn't deserve to feel better. Being in pain was the only way he could try to make amends.


	3. Chapter 3

Glancing at his watch Tim realized that the car ride hadn't actually been that long, but lately he'd been experiencing mild claustrophobia whenever he was in small spaces with other people. He couldn't even ride in the elevator at work anymore. He'd told everyone that taking the stairs was part of his new exercise regimen, but the truth was that just being so close to anyone else in an enclosed space made him start to panic. The last time Tim took the elevator it had been empty until Gibbs slipped in through the closing doors. When they reached their office floor Tim had bolted to the head, gasping for breath as he clutched the sink for balance. He couldn't risk that happening again.

Being in a car today with the team hadn't caused an anxiety attack, but it was still a physical relief for him to step outside into the fresh air. Tim looked around at the vast ravine where they were parked. While he'd rather be alone at home, if they had to be on a case this was certainly the best situation for him. The crime was over, the victim was already back in autopsy, and the perpetrators were unlikely to still be in the area. The team had been called in to search for more evidence, a task which was likely to be tedious and unrewarding, but not risky or dangerous. It was also something that could be a fairly solitary task, since Gibbs would undoubtedly want them to cover as much ground as possible before it got dark. Tim was not really interested in making conversation.

Gibbs divided the area up, and assigned each agent to a region. Tim headed off towards his section, glad to be away from Tony. Hearing footsteps, Tim spun around angrily, expecting to encounter DiNozzo sneaking up behind him, but instead he found himself face-to-face with Ziva.

"Tim, I did not mean to scare you."

Tim felt embarrassed. "Sorry. I just thought you were Tony screwing around again."

"I am not. I simply thought we might canvass the boundary area together, until our paths must diverge."

Tim didn't think there was a way to tell her that he just wanted to be alone without it leading to questions he didn't want to answer, so he shrugged and directed his attention towards the ground. At first Ziva worked silently a few feet away from him, and Tim almost forgot that she was there.

"I think you did well with this doctor today, Tim."

Tim looked up, startled. Why did Ziva know what he had said to the psychologist? He felt his chest burning. Did Dr. Avery talk to the director after the session? Did she talk to Gibbs? Maybe Ziva had overheard something – surely the therapist hadn't just gone to Ziva and shared details of the meeting. Tim felt indignant. That was private and confidential! At least he thought it was. But maybe since it was an NCIS staff psychologist, the rules didn't apply. Tim could feel himself start to panic.

Ziva continued. "I believe that you were only in the room with her for perhaps 25 minutes. Maybe less. I think that you must have convinced her very quickly that you had fully recovered from the incident, and her services were unnecessary."

"Um, yeah. I guess." Tim felt flustered by the realization that he'd completely overreacted.

"I admit that I was quite worried about this, Tim. You are so easily made nervous. I did not know if you would be able to show her your confidence adequately."

"It wasn't a big deal." Tim muttered, mildly annoyed at the way Ziva's compliments were laced with criticisms.

"At least you did not try to follow Tony's advice. A trained psychiatrist would not be fooled by the diversions of Tony's joking around."

Tim felt his face redden at the memory of his conversation with Dr. Avery. "She was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist."

"They are all the same, these mind doctors. It is all about touching-feeling. I have no use for such things."

"Touchy-feely." Tim corrected her under his breath.

"I believe that Gibbs also does not like these doctors. Really, I think that he only does not say so because he does not want to offend Ducky. But I cannot understand why – "

"Ziva!" Tim snapped. "I can't concentrate with you talking!"

Ziva looked surprised at his uncharacteristic outburst. "I am sorry. I did not mean to disrupt your work."

Tim felt guilty that he'd yelled at her, but he just wanted to get away from all of them. "It's fine. Look, I'm sorry. I just need to pay attention." He turned away quickly before she could respond, and strode briskly in the opposite direction. He hated feeling this way, but he just seemed to be a pot waiting to boil over these days – with anger, frustration, panic, fear, or whatever the most intense emotion was at the moment. He exploded, and then immediately slammed the lid back on, cramming everything back inside.

Tim didn't notice the tree root until he'd already tripped over it. He hurtled forward, breaking his fall with his hands. "Shit!" he cried out.

"Are you OK?" Ziva called to him from her region.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's no big deal." Tim felt more embarrassed than injured. He pushed himself up and felt the sharp pain of something stabbing into the heel of his hand. Dropping back down he leaned against a tree and inspected his palm. A large splinter had embedded itself into his hand. Tim swallowed. He hated medical stuff. But he sure as hell wasn't going to ask one of the others for help.

Thank goodness for Rule Number Nine, he thought. Tim dug around in his bag until he found his Swiss Army knife. Tim pulled open one of the attachments and looked at his hand, then back at the shiny sharp blade. He felt sick. But Tim knew he had to do this, and he had to do it before anyone else noticed him just sitting there. Steeling himself, he touched the knife point to the heel of his hand, and then tentatively started digging around the wooden shard. He felt it starting to come loose, and after a bit more fiddling Tim was able to dislodge the splinter. It fell to the ground, and Tim stared at the place where it had been in his hand. It hadn't been very deep at all. You would never even know that something had been there, or how much it had hurt when he pushed down on it.

Later on, Tim wouldn't remember what made him do it. He just wanted to know what it would feel like to have the pain come back, just for a moment. He held the blade to the tender spot caused by the splinter, and then pushed down on the point. It wasn't a deep cut, but he broke the skin, and a drop of blood appeared on the surface and grew before his eyes. There was a sensation of pain, and Tim pulled the knife away, shocked by what he'd just done. But he couldn't stop looking at the blood, and almost immediately the pain was replaced by a wave of relief. It was like all the tension just melted out of his body.

Tim's trance was broken by the sound of Ziva jogging towards him.

"Tim, are you injured?"

Tim looked up at her with glazed eyes. It took a second for him to focus on her, and to realize that he'd been sitting down by the tree for several minutes now.

"You are bleeding." Ziva stated bluntly.

The panic came crashing back into him. Tim looked at his hand, and then at the knife, and wondered how he'd explain this. "I had a splinter…" he stammered. "I used the knife to get it out…but it started to bleed…"

"Do you require a bandage?" Ziva asked, unfazed.

"What?"

"A bandage. For your hand."

"Oh." Tim wiped his hand on his canvas backpack. "No, I'm fine. It's nothing."

"OK. I will return to my area then."

Ziva sprinted back towards her assigned region, and Tim looked down at his hand. The blood was gone, and so was the intense calm feeling he'd had after he'd made the cut. His insides were all knotted up again, just like they'd been since the shooting. Since that night, Tim had forgotten what it was like to feel peaceful. But now something had reminded him what that feeling was like, and he wanted to get it back.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a nightmarish day. Gibbs had gotten a call informing him that a Navy officer had shot and killed two executives at an insurance company that had denied his claims for family medical expenses. When security guards had reached the scene, the officer had turned the gun on himself. Tim was still driving to work when Gibbs caught him on his cell and instructed him to meet the team at the crime scene. Tim pulled into the building's driveway just as Tony and Ziva were unloading supplies from the truck. Gibbs grabbed a large pack from Tony and thrust it towards Tim.

"You're with me, McGee." Gibbs was already well into the foyer before Tim had even gotten a proper hold on the heavy bag. Scrambling to catch up with his boss, Tim didn't even register at first that Gibbs was waiting for him in front of the elevator.

The elevator doors opened and Gibbs strode in. Tim's throat tightened as he saw Gibbs waiting for him to follow.

"Uh, Boss, I'll just meet you up there, OK?"

"We're going to the twelfth floor, McGee. We don't have time for your exercise regimen." Gibbs's tone conveyed his impatience.

Tim still hesitated.

"Get in the damn elevator, McGee."

Tim willed himself inside the metal box. Twelve floors. He took in a deep breath as the doors closed, and shut his eyes. As the elevator ascended Tim tried to breathe out slowly enough that they'd be at the top before he ran out of air. When his lungs were empty, Tim opened his eyes. They were at the third floor.

Tim felt himself getting overheated, and he reminded himself to breathe in again. He wanted to unzip his jacket, but he needed both hands to hold the pack. Tim leaned against the back wall of the elevator and watched the floor numbers light up…6,7,8…9… The elevator stopped and the doors opened to let in a security guard. Gibbs gave the man a short nod.

The security guard attempted to engage Gibbs in conversation. "You just never can tell when one of these guys is going to go off the deep end, can you." It was a statement more than a question. Gibbs looked straight ahead and didn't respond.

The guard turned to McGee and made a second attempt at small talk. "Your job to lug his stuff around?" He jerked his head in Gibbs's direction.

Tim was still focused on not passing out. "No, sir," he managed to say. Gibbs turned and gave him a strange look.

"Well, you got him well trained, anyways." The guard remarked to Gibbs.

At last they reached the twelfth floor, and Tim almost lunged out of the elevator. He dropped the pack and tore off his jacket. His underarms were soaked with sweat. Luckily Gibbs was already across the room surveying the bodies, and Tim was able to dash off to a bathroom where he was could splash water on his face and the back of his neck.

The rest of the day had been torture for Tim. It was the first time he'd been around dead bodies since the night he'd shot Benedict. When he looked at the victims he saw Benedict's face instead. Every smell made his stomach lurch, and only the awareness that Gibbs would tear a strip off him if he compromised the crime scene kept him from vomiting. Tim tuned everything else out and just focused on getting his job done. The anxiety became a bubble around him – he was hot and his ears were buzzing, but he was able to effectively perform the tasks required of him. At the end of the day he didn't even hear the first time that Gibbs told them they could go home.

As soon as he was safely in his own apartment Tim peeled off his sweaty work clothes and pulled on an MIT t-shirt and boxer shorts. Tim glanced at his computer, but didn't think he could muster up the energy for a role playing game. He needed something slower and more solitary. He sat down at his typewriter. Working on his novel seemed like the right speed.

Tim scanned the last few paragraphs to remember where he had left off. LJ Tibbs and Lisa had found the backwoods cabin where they suspected a serial killer, Linus Browne, usually brought his victims. They knew that he always kept two victims captive at a time, and made the most recent one watch him kill the previous prisoner. Right now they knew that Browne only had one woman in the cabin, which meant that he'd be preparing to seek out his next victim. Agent Tommy had sent word that Browne had been seen in town that morning, so Lisa and Tibbs were cautiously approaching the cabin, presuming it empty except for the current captive. Lisa silently signaled to Tibbs that she was going up ahead to check out the windows, but when she reached the cabin steps Browne burst through the door, grabbing Lisa from behind. Tim had left the story with Browne holding Lisa in a choke-hold, his gun pushing up on her jaw.

Tim began typing. LJ Tibbs was a former sniper, and if he could get a clean shot at Browne's head, then he would be able to take out the murderer without injuring Lisa. But if he missed and hit Lisa, then not only would he have shot his agent, but Browne might be able to get back in the cabin to shoot the remaining woman before Tibbs could stop him. Tim thought that he could build suspense by making the bullet hit Lisa's shoulder and having Browne drop her to the ground, leaving the reader to wonder if she was bleeding to death while Tibbs chased the killer inside. On the other hand, what if Browne shot Lisa himself, which would then force Tibbs to…

Tim slammed his fists down on the keys. How could he do this? How could he trivialize death and murder and serial killers for the sake of entertainment? It was sick, and he was disgusted at himself for profiting from such a hideous trade, and even enjoying it. He saw the reality of crime every day; of all people, he should know better. It repulsed him to think about the fact that he had turned death into a hobby.

Tim could feel himself coming apart. Everything inside him was just so extreme these days. He was overwhelmed with anger and disgust right now, but he knew that soon that would be replaced by a terrible, deep sadness.

Suddenly Tim remembered how he'd felt last week in the ravine, after he'd gotten the splinter. Rummaging through his backpack, he pulled out his pocket knife. Tim inspected the palm of his hand – there was no evidence of the splinter or the cut he'd made. He thought about cutting his hand again, but he knew that it was a mistake. He needed his hands for too many things.

Tim went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. He pulled up the leg of his boxer shorts to expose his upper thigh. No one would see a cut there.

He held the point of the knife to his leg, and dragged it lightly across his skin. It left a soft white line, as though he'd been drawing with a chalk pencil on his thigh. The knife had scratched as it moved, but it didn't hurt. Tim moved it back to the start of the line. This time he pressed down firmly as he drew the knife along its track. He felt a stinging pain that radiated into a burning feeling around the cut. A glistening red inch appeared on his thigh. Tim was mesmerized by the blood, and the pain seemed to encompass his entire being. As the pain subsided, Tim felt all his muscles relax blissfully.

When he felt like he could stand again, Tim blotted the cut with some toilet paper, and then fell into bed. He slept deeply and peacefully for the first night since the shooting.

**

* * *

**

At first Tim was careful to ration the times that he cut himself, treating it like a gift after a particularly rough day. He made himself strict rules to follow – never do it two days in a row, no cutting on weekends, only do it inside the apartment. He was meticulous about alternating between legs, and never cut on one leg until the previous cut had started to disappear. Tim ensured that he only went deep enough to draw blood, never deeper. As long as he followed these rules, he figured it was under control. Tim knew it wasn't exactly something he should be happy about, but it wasn't like he had that many vices – he didn't smoke at all and he rarely drank. The worst addiction he could fault himself for was a predilection for decadent flavored lattes. So this one bad habit wasn't going to worry him.

Tim took it in stride the first time he broke one of his rules because the circumstances had been so extreme and unusual. The team was investigating a particularly gruesome crime scene and Tim had been instructed to photograph the mutilated bodies before Jimmy transported them back to autopsy. Tim's own body alternated between hot flashes and chills, and his hands were shaking hard enough that he worried none of his pictures would turn out. When the team got back to the office, Tim made a beeline for the head and locked himself in a stall where he undid his pants and sat on the toilet seat. When the blade broke his skin, the relief was instantaneous. Tim could breathe again.

Once he knew he could do it at work, though, it was easy to do it again. Tim rationalized that if it helped him do his job, it made sense to give himself permission to keep doing it. If a visit to autopsy left him shaken, a quick trip to the bathroom on the way back to his desk meant that he'd be able to concentrate on whatever task Gibbs had waiting for him. Tim bought an extra pocket knife to leave in his desk. Just knowing it was there made everything seem less daunting. Tim was even able to take the elevator one day when he arrived at the same time as Tony and didn't want to provoke Tony's teasing by heading for the stairs rather than join him.

It wasn't till Gibbs asked Tim to sit in on an interrogation that Tim began to worry if the cutting was getting out of hand. Tim sat silently across from the suspect with Gibbs at his side. Tim knew that Gibbs's routine in interrogation was a carefully choreographed dance that couldn't be rushed. But as the time dragged on Tim grew increasingly distraught. The room was small and hot, and Tim felt the impatience and agitation building inside him like a fire. He grew sweaty and his legs began to tremble so rapidly that he had to keep them steady with his hands. Tim didn't want to admit it to himself at first, but the urge inside him was undeniable. Tim tried to ignore the need, but eventually he pushed his chair back, announced to a startled Gibbs that he needed a moment, and went to do the only thing that he knew would make it stop.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim was working distractedly at his desk when Tony came flying in. He stopped at Tim's desk and placed a large handful of Skittles in front of Tim with an elaborate flourish.

"These are for me…" Tony went over and placed a second handful on his own desk. "And these, McDweeb, are for you." Tony sat down at his desk and grinned crazily at his partner.

"I don't have time for whatever game you're playing, Tony." Tim said in an exasperated tone.

"Funny you should mention games. Because this is going to be an excellent one." Tony picked up a Skittle. "Open wide, Probie!"

Before Tony's command could register, a Skittle bounced off Tim's forehead.

"OK, now me!" Tony opened his mouth as wide as possible and tilted his head back.

"I'm not throwing a Skittle at you, Tony." Tim said drily.

"Es oo ahr," Tony replied without closing his mouth.

Tim turned back to his computer screen and started typing, being sure that he was clicking the keys loudly enough for Tony to hear.

A Skittle ricocheted off his temple.

"DiNozzo!" Tim hollered. When he looked at his partner, Tony was waiting once again with his mouth open. Tim sighed, knowing when he'd lost. He selected a green Skittle and launched it in Tony's direction. It soared over Tony's nose and landed behind him.

"Strike one!" Tony cried. "Aim higher this time."

Resigned, Tim tossed another candy in Tony's direction. To both their amazements, it flew squarely into Tony's mouth.

"Home run!" Tony jumped up with his arms raised in a cheer, only to freeze in his place. Tim didn't even need to turn around to know that Gibbs was standing behind him.

Gibbs picked up the closest trash can and held it out in grim silence. Tim gathered up his pile of Skittles and disposed of them without making eye contact with his boss. Reluctantly Tony followed suit, though he flashed Gibbs a cheeky sad look at the waste of perfectly good candy.

Gibbs put down the can. "Both of you, over your desks," he ordered. Tim winced but obeyed. He laid himself across his desk and gripped the far side. Glancing over his shoulder Tim saw Tony get into position and Gibbs retrieve a wooden paddle from his drawer.

The senior agent moved behind Tony first and landed a hard swat on DiNozzo's backside. Tony let out a loud "Ow!", and while Tim knew it hurt, he also knew that his partner liked to make a spectacle of his punishments. Gibbs showed no sign of noticing, though, and brought the paddle down seven more unyielding times to the tune of Tony's vocal protests.

Tony groaned as he began to ease himself up.

"Stay in position till I'm finished with Tim," Gibbs directed, and DiNozzo lowered himself back down with a sigh.

Tim tightened his grip on the desk as Gibbs began spanking him. He felt the solid impact of the wood as it landed, and then an intense pain radiating across his butt and legs. There was little time for it to dissipate before another firm blow came on top of it. Tim closed his eyes and silently immersed himself in the experience of the spanking. Each time the paddle landed Tim felt himself sinking deeper into his trance. Gibbs, Tony, and the entire office seemed impossibly far away.

When Gibbs ordered them both back to work, Tim emerged from his dazed state and returned to his seat behind the desk. Once their boss was out of earshot, Tony sighed and looked longingly at the garbage can. "I don't see why we had to throw out the Skittles."

Tim wasn't paying attention, though. He realized that he felt perfectly calm.

For the first time in weeks, Tim didn't cut himself at all during the day. And when he climbed into bed that night, he fell immediately asleep and stayed that way until his alarm woke him the next morning.

It appeared to Tim that he'd found an alternative to cutting himself.


	6. Chapter 6

While Gibbs certainly had no qualms about doling out spankings when they were required, Tim knew that their boss preferred not to overuse the disciplinary measure. Even Tony, who was on the receiving end of a thrashing far more frequently than Tim, still went most weeks without getting his backside tanned. Tim recognized that it was going to take some significant work to make getting spanked a viable alternative to cutting himself, since that was now part of his daily routine. He was also aware that he couldn't appear too much out of character lest he arouse Gibbs's suspicions.

Tim tried at first to just seem "forgetful", hoping that he would begin to try Gibbs's patience. He deliberately didn't finish a report in time, but it was a first for him, so Gibbs just made him stay at his desk until it was done. He "forgot" to gas the truck, but that only netted him a particularly sharp headslap. McGee realized he was going to have to step up his efforts if his needs were to be met.

Finally a morning came that Tim felt certain he'd succeeded. Although this had been his goal all along, Tim was anxious as he waited for his boss to arrive. He nervously rearranged the icons on his computer screen, trying to look busy. At last Gibbs strode into the office. Tim felt his stomach flip as the senior agent reached his desk.

"What the hell?!?" Gibbs roared. "Who was responsible for making sure this went back into the evidence locker last night?" He picked up a sealed bag with a cell phone inside and his eyes narrowed.

No one answered him.

"DiNozzo!"

"It wasn't me, Boss! I swear! I was helping Abby in the lab till 11!" Tony seemed truly panicked. "At least, I don't think I was supposed to do that…"

Tim saw Tony becoming confused, and realized that his partner was so used to screwing up that he might actually convince himself that it had been his fault. Tim needed to jump in before that happened.

"It was me." Tim said quietly.

DiNozzo and Gibbs both looked at McGee with shocked expressions.

"I don't need you to cover for DiNozzo's screw-up, McGee."

"I'm not, Boss. That was my job." Tim realized that he was going to have to embellish his story to make it seem plausible. "I was going to do it on my way out last night, but I…uh…I lost track of time, and I was supposed to be at home by 9 because there were people waiting for me online…"

"Are you telling me that you compromised the chain of evidence so that you could play a _video game_?"

Tim was terrified of Gibbs when he was angry, but he reminded himself that this was all for a worthwhile cause. He forced himself to keep playing the role.

"It's not exactly a video game." McGee pedantically corrected. "It's more of a…"

"Over here," Gibbs growled. "Now."

Tim knew that Tony was completely bewildered by the scene that was unfolding. This was not the usual course of events. Tim steeled himself and made his way over to Gibbs's desk.

Gibbs opened his drawer and pulled out a ruler.

"Hold out your hand."

Tim hadn't expected that. He didn't think that Gibbs would take kindly to being asked for a different punishment, though, so Tim did as he was told.

Gibbs cracked the ruler across Tim's palm four sharp times. It was swift and intense, and Tim couldn't deny that it hurt like hell. Tears stung in his eyes. But it wasn't enough. Tim needed it to be harder and to last longer. He looked desperately at Gibbs, but knew it was impossible to articulate what he was thinking.

"Get that bag down to Evidence, and thank your lucky stars no one else found it here before I did."

Tim nodded wordlessly and blinked back tears. He grabbed the bag, and with his other hand he felt his pants pocket for the telltale outline of his pocket knife. He knew that he'd be stopping at the head on his way back.


	7. Chapter 7

Tim was getting desperate. He knew that things were starting to come apart at the seams. His teammates could clearly tell that something was up, but he'd gotten so good at avoiding their questions that they didn't even bother to ask anymore. His efforts to intentionally drop the ball at work in pursuit of a punishment had become confusing, and Tim was pretty sure that he was now making mistakes without aiming to. The lack of sleep, the anxiety, and the cutting were all starting to take their toll.

On his way back from MTAC he passed Dr. Avery's office. She wasn't in today – her position at NCIS was only part-time. Tim lingered in front of her door and wondered if he should make an appointment to see her. She had seemed really kind and helpful when he met her, and maybe she could help fix whatever was wrong with him. Tim shook himself back to reality. When he had seen Dr. Avery the first time, he had known that the risk of confiding in her was too great if he wanted to keep his job, and that was when he was only having insomnia and panic attacks. Now he was cutting himself with a knife on purpose – he'd be lucky if she didn't lock him up in an institution, never mind get him fired. There was no choice – he'd have to deal with this on his own. And this time, he'd make sure that he got it right.

* * *

Tim fidgeted outside the interrogation room, clutching a folder to his chest. This really was the most insane plan, but he just didn't see that there were any other options. He looked again in the folder to make sure the form was still in there. It was, just as it had been the last time he'd checked 30 seconds earlier.

Tim watched Gibbs through the two-sided mirror, waiting for the right moment. Gibbs had been pursuing this suspect for weeks, and now that he was finally in custody, Tim knew that his boss was going to make this interrogation count. There was clearly a battle of wits going on. Tim knew that Gibbs would prevail in the end, but it looked like the suspect had the upper hand at the moment. Under normal circumstances Tim would watch the dramatic scene unfold with a mixture of fascination and awe, but today he was only interested in one thing.

Gibbs slammed his hand down on the table and leaned forward menacingly. Tim took his cue. He knocked on the door and without waiting for a reply, walked boldly in to the interrogation room.

The glare from Gibbs was vicious. Tim cowered inside, but fortified himself. He was going to get this whipping if it killed him.

Gibbs spoke through gritted teeth. "Can I help you, Special Agent McGee?"

Tim tried to keep his voice from shaking. "I need you to sign a form."

Gibbs eyes narrowed. "A _form_? Is it _urgent_?"

"Well, I needed to requisition some extra supplies before heading over to Quantico, and it needs a signature from my supervisor here…" Tim pointed at the form for good measure.

"Wait for me in Interrogation Room 2, McGee. I'll be in there to _sign your form _in just a moment."

Tim nodded in assent. The look on the suspect's face showed that even he recognized how crazy it was for Tim to interrupt Gibbs. _He doesn't know the half of it_, Tim thought as he quickly exited the room.

It didn't take long for Gibbs to come storming into the room where Tim was waiting.

"You don't EVER interrupt me in Interrogation!" Gibbs roared. "You may still be a probie, but you're not that green!"

"I'm sorry, Boss. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind just this one time."

"Well, I guess this is going to come as a bit of a shock, then." Gibbs reached down to unbuckle his belt.

Tim almost sighed in relief seeing that his plan had worked. He turned to bend over the table.

"Not so fast, McGee."

Tim straightened up and looked at his boss perplexed. Gibbs was folding his belt in half – surely he couldn't be misreading such obvious signals.

"Pants down."

Tim's hands automatically went to unzip his pants when the realization hit him. He looked up at Gibbs, stricken. "I can't, Boss."

"What the hell do you mean you can't? You've done it before, and I haven't got time for false modesty."

Tim shook his head vehemently. "Please, Gibbs. Don't make me do that. I'll take twice as many licks as you were planning on giving me. Or you can spank me today and tomorrow. Just don't make me take off my pants."

Gibbs stared at him in disbelief. There was a short stand-off, and then Gibbs softened his face. He laid his belt down on the table and said in a calm voice, "Tim, take down your pants."

Tim shook his head 'no'.

"Yes, Tim." Gibbs waited.

Tim reluctantly undid his pants and slid them down to his ankles. He stood back up but avoided looking at Gibbs. Tim knew that there were ladders of scars down the front of his thighs. There was a long silence before Gibbs spoke.

"Tim, what have you been doing to yourself?" His voice was compassionate.

Tim didn't think that Gibbs would understand what was happening to him. "It wasn't me, Gibbs. It was my dog. He's been jumping a lot and scratching lately, and I know I should train him better…"

"A dog doesn't make evenly spaced horizontal scratches down your legs, Tim. Don't lie to me. It's clear what you've been doing. I just want to know why."

It was the genuine sense of concern from Gibbs that finally got to him. Tim's face crumpled and he sat down on the floor, gathering his knees to his chest. "I tried to stop, Gibbs. I wanted to stop. I just can't. I thought this was going to work today, but I guess…" Tim made a concerted effort to pull himself together. "I'm going to stop, Gibbs, I promise."

"What did you think was going to work today?"

"Nothing. I don't know what I was going to say."

"Yes, you do."

"It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. Please don't tell anyone about this."

Gibbs sat down on the floor next to him and looked intently at Tim. "Were you trying to get me to spank you today so that you wouldn't cut yourself?"

Tim felt his face get hot. He dug his fingernails deeply into his arms until it hurt.

Gibbs put his hand on Tim's. He just laid it there gently, until finally Tim felt his own grip loosening.

"Why can't I stop, Gibbs?" Tim asked pleadingly.

Gibbs was silent for a few moments before he answered.

"I don't know, Tim. But I do know that getting me to whip you isn't going to solve the problem."

The words made sense, but Tim knew that it wasn't enough. He'd been through every rational argument with himself, but the cravings were just too great. A promise to Gibbs wasn't going to stop that.

"Do you think I need to quit? My job, I mean?" Tim asked fearfully, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"No, I don't." Gibbs's tone was confident. "But this isn't something that you're going to be able to deal with on your own, and I'm not going to let you self-destruct."

"What are you going to do?"

"You'll be staying with me for awhile, until we know that you're safe to be alone. And you'll be seeing that shrink here, as often as she thinks you need it."

Tim was startled by the comment. "But I thought you didn't believe in that stuff!"

"I don't. Not for me, anyways. But when I was in the Corps…" Gibbs trailed off for a moment, lost in his recollections. "Different people handle stuff in different ways, Tim. Some of what people saw, or what they did, it affected them. More than it affected other guys, I mean. It was just too much for them to handle."

Tim looked down, feeling ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Gibbs."

"For what?"

"For not being stronger."

Gibbs took Tim's chin in his hand and raised his head back up.

"These were good men, Tim. Strong, capable, brave men. How they reacted wasn't in their control. It wasn't their fault. And for some of them, the head shrinking brought them back. It was what they needed."

"And you think it's what I need?"

"I think that those men were in very dark, painful places inside their heads, and that you must be too if you're doing this to yourself." Gibbs ran his thumb over the worst of Tim's cuts. Tim winced, not from the pain, but from the humiliation of having Gibbs see what he'd done to himself. "Right now you need something more than what I can give you, Tim. Give the therapy a chance. Let Dr. Avery do her job."

Tim nodded without conviction.

"I'm serious, Tim. Because if you miss an appointment, then I will spank your ass." Gibbs grinned, but Tim couldn't muster up any amusement in the situation.

Quietly Tim said, "I killed someone, Gibbs."

"I know, Tim."

"I was doing my job, and I know I had to do it. But John Benedict was a good cop, and he didn't deserve to die, and I shot him. Someone's dead because of me. I don't think I can live with that."

Gibbs listened silently.

"It hurts so much, Gibbs."

"I know."

"Will it ever stop?"

"You're going to get better, Tim. People get better."

"I'm not sure I deserve to." Tim whispered.

"You don't get to decide that." Gibbs replied firmly.

"OK." Tim sounded doubtful.

"Today is not the day you're going to believe me, Tim. And probably tomorrow won't be either. So for now, your only job is to do what I say, because I'm going to get you through to the other side."

More than anything, Tim wanted to tell Gibbs that he did believe him, and that he trusted him. But Gibbs was right. Today wasn't the day that was going to happen. But if there was one thing that Tim did know, it was that Gibbs wouldn't let anyone hurt him, and that included Tim himself. Tim realized that was all he needed to know right now.

"Yes, Boss." Tim said, and the words had never meant so much to either of them.


End file.
